


Defining Moments

by Hawk (Hawk87)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Clint Barton Needs a Hug, First Meetings, Gen, Gift Fic, M/M, Timeline What Timeline, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:42:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24932470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hawk87/pseuds/Hawk
Summary: Clint Barton’s defining moments exceeded what could be counted with his fingers alone. And most of them featured Tony Stark…
Relationships: Clint Barton/Tony Stark
Comments: 2
Kudos: 54





	Defining Moments

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tares (ColdAtomHeadcanons)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColdAtomHeadcanons/gifts).



> A commission for my Princess <3

Decisions. People made them every day. They were mostly minor, insignificant and trivial; what to have for lunch or which side of the sidewalk seemed the least offensive, but there were those decisions in life that would be remembered: the so-called “defining moments”. The defining moments were the big decisions, the pivotal acts that set the groundwork for every further choice in life, both trivial and not. Most could name but a few. Clint Barton’s defining moments exceeded what could be counted with his fingers alone. And most of them featured Tony Stark…

Pieces of Clint were missing now; large chunks of his memory were still awash in that ethereal blue haze and others, irritated by the cognitive recalibration of his mind at the hands of his friend, simply refused to come to the surface. Had this been any other day, any other mission, he would not be cleared for fieldwork. Coulson would have marched him straight back to medical the moment he tried to leave it, and it would be weeks at least before the psychological evaluation of his predicament allowed him back onto the field. Months, if they were doing their jobs properly. With the trauma he’d been through, memory loss, and a grudge the size of Iowa, he’d be lucky to ever have seen the field again.

But as the sky flashed with red and gold, he was thrust back to a memory. To a defining moment.

He was younger then… that was how time worked, he supposed, but he remembered the moment as clear as his present reality. He had been working the circus scene, the newest recruit of the Coney Island Circus, having moved on from Tibolt’s, carrying with him the name of “Hawkeye”. He had been lamenting over his life, he recalled. His relationship with his brother, Barney, was a shamble… the family he had come to know within the Carson Carnival of Travelling Wonders had abandoned him, leaving him for dead as the Swordsman skipped town, his criminal enterprise undiscovered and nothing but a conflicted protégé in his wake… And he was alone. No friends, no family, no future and history that he now called into question. Every decision he’d made, every order that he’d followed… His place in the Swordsman’s plans left questions hanging above his head like the dagger of Macbeth.

And try though he might, the guilt of that life and the unfulfillment of his new path refused to be washed away by the cheap cider he’d brought into the Big Top. He had laid back on the bleachers, watching the red-striped fabric shift in the breeze from the nearby channel, one particular spot of the roof flapping with more vigour, torn. Clint even recalled the grumbling thought that he’d had over being the new recruit burdened with fixing that annoyance later.

That was when he saw it through the hole in the tent: a flash of red and gold. A defining moment.

He had raced from the tent as quickly as he could, seeing only the retreating repulsor of the metal-clad man then but it was enough. It was enough for him to find the reports and learn of the ‘Iron Man’ currently working his way through various Afghani terrorist rings. The reports ranged from a military drone to masked vigilante but Clint knew what he had seen. He hit the streets not a week after that, and it was a short time later that he’d saved the right person for SHIELD to learn of his existence. It became the first day of his new life. His redemption arc, part one.

“I’m bringing the party to you.”

The voice through the comms system was unfamiliar in that, despite his change of direction, he had never actually spoken to the man in the suit himself. It was familiar in that he didn’t think there was a soul left in the world who hadn’t seen Tony in one media format or another. His now-famous ‘I am Iron Man’ speech had rocked the world. Had rocked SHIELD in a way that nothing had since. Until now.

The Chitauri Leviathan followed the hero through the sky, the ground Avengers momentarily struck by something a mix between fear and awe. Clint shook himself free of his memories; he had worked hard to redeem himself than and it was time now to do it once more. Natasha had refused him the details of how many he had killed and that in itself was enough for Clint to know that it hadn’t been just one or two. The guilt was back. That same guilt that had burdened his mind all those years ago was back with a vengeance and with it came the knowledge that this time he wasn’t enough. This time he was faced with the end of the world as they knew it and his fighting with this team might well not be enough to redeem him. True, he might die and be counted as an Avenger but was that enough?

He wondered if Tony thought it was enough.

For all Tony was clearly a hero now, it was a work in progress. Clint wasn’t the only man here with a history of complicit violence, after all. Tony had turned a blind eye to his own company, letting it fall into hands less diplomatic and as a result… the death of millions. He had built weapons that killed on both sides. The guilt of that… Clint could not compare his own sorrows. Though he would look it up later, hack the system, for now at least he was blessed with blindness towards his own unwilful murders. For now, at least, the Sword of Damocles could hold its fragile thread over him in the constant threat of his amnesiac bliss shattering.

Of course, that could wait. The portal in the sky showed no sign of closing, giving way to what had to have been thousands more soldiers and more leviathan… His attention snapped to their self-appointed leader. Captain America himself, who had allowed him onto this battlefield with no more than a nod from Natasha. Any friend of hers… “Barton, I want you on that roof, eyes on everything. Call out patterns and strays.” 

“Wanna give me a lift?” he turned to Stark. The very first words he’d ever speak to his personal hero. Huh. He’d always thought if they ever met in person, he’d think of something more poetic. Something that better thanked him for the change of pace. That being said… without him he would still be a carnie and almost definitely wouldn’t have been dragged into this mess much less possessed by a space rock and its psychotic keeper. Ah well. Perhaps if he helped save the world here, he’d feel a little better about that.

“Right, better clench up, Legolas.”

Suffice to say, it wasn’t the most comfortable method of transportation that Clint had ever encountered. Of course, he didn’t possess a fear of heights, used to a lifetime of working from the rafters of the Big Top, swinging himself down on a trapeze or working with a grappling hook, but there was something different about a set of titanium alloy hands being the only thing keeping him from life and death by sidewalk. He placed his life entirely in Tony’s hands and for all he trusted his would-be hero, he did let out a sigh of relief when his feet met solid rooftop.

He was at peace then and with no more than a salute, Tony was in the sky once more. And if Clint watched Stark a little closer than the rest of the team, it was nothing more than a coincidence. The others could handle themselves. “Stark, you got a lot of strays sniffing your tail.”

“I’m just trying to keep them off the streets.”

Clint could have sworn that he could hear the hint of fear in Stark’s voice. He wondered idly if Tony was ever afraid of heights. How much protection did his suit provide? It seemed very real that he could be struck from the sky at any moment; all it would take was for one of these things to be faster or to catch the right angle and he would be plummeting to his very quick but very certain doom. The thought of it made Clint shift, his eyes never moving from the battle-worn armour, loosing an arrow over his shoulder where it struck its mark. He didn’t recall feeling this way since his first mission with Natasha… the overwhelming desire to protect, despite her superior rank and experience.

He had to protect Tony.

“Well, they can’t bank worth a damn. So, find a tight corner.”

“I will roger that.”

Gears shifted in his quiver, changing the arrow tip to an electrical disruptor before he pulled it, nocked and fired in perfect time to strike one of the soldiers racing after the genius. He took down as many as he could, leaving the others to take care of themselves as Tony threaded through underground car parks and banked the tighter turns. One self-imposed collision after another until both men could breathe a brief sigh of relief. Relief and, on Clint’s part, a touch of pride as Tony followed his respite with, “Nice call. What else you got?”

“Thor’s taking on a squadron down on Sixth.”

“And he didn’t invite me.”

The battle raged on, each Avenger doing their part. Natasha took to the skies, Hulk smashed his way through buildings and took on leviathans without concern and Clint had their backs, calling out warnings, letting Cap know where the civilians were being rounded up or noting the ever-changing formations. In truth, Clint might even say that he had the easiest job, his position a lucky one. It was rare that a soldier came into his vicinity with any ill intent against him. The sickening thought that the Chitauri might be purposely avoiding him as a result of his brief time as their brainwashed ally was pushed rapidly to the back of his mind with the rest of his guilt.

“Hawkeye! A little help?” Natasha’s voice cut through the repetitive nock and strike of arrows. Now was his chance to sever whatever allegiance their attackers thought they had with him for good.

“I got him.”

A whir of his quiver knocked another trick head and he fired, his lips pulled to a satisfied smirk. If anyone deserved to finish the demi-God, he’d like to be the one to do it. Of course, he didn’t expect the petulant asshole to catch the shaft but he could have the last laugh as the explosion erupted all the same, powerful enough to take down the vehicle and send Loki falling to the observation deck of Stark Tower. Not dead then but at least Clint knew it damn well hurt.

With his association suitably dissolved, it was only seconds before soldiers descended upon his rooftop and his position of ease became truly life-threatening. One arrow later, his quiver was empty and his heart gave a skip. Fuck it. The bow made a decent enough weapon to take on at least one soldier, giving him time enough to pull his final arrow from the closest dead. He slid it back to the quiver, selecting the arrowhead and ran. He was a target now. He could die in an explosion or he could fall to his death and give himself a fighting chance. He chose the latter.

In hindsight, not his greatest plan but it had to beat being eaten by their prospective alien overlords, right? Eaten? Honestly, he hadn’t asked questions of the ultimate plan and if he had, it was a detail lost to his fragmented memory, but whether he was about to become a snack or not, Clint would certainly prefer not to find out. The arrowhead fixed, he turned and fired, grapple hook finding its hold on the remaining fraction of the wall. He swung to the building, bracing himself for the impact as he shattered the glass and landed with an ungraceful roll into someone’s now-ruined office.

He’d definitely broken a rib. Maybe he could just stay here…

And then, through the window, a flash of red and gold.

Clint dragged himself to the edge of the shattered glass, the comm in his ear crackling, giving him nothing of any use. Something about the portal, a nuclear missile and… No. No, no, no. Suddenly it wasn’t just a flash of red and gold but Iron Man and a missile, flying straight up and disappearing through the portal into the abyss of space. Around the city, he could hear the cheers as the civilians breathed their relief at not being destroyed by the impending warhead but what of Tony? For all Clint’s desire to protect him, he couldn’t follow him into _space._

His eyes were fixed, desperate, wild. Tony wasn’t allowed to die before Clint got to meet him. That wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. After everything they two had been through, the world owed him this. And yet, even without his reappearance, he heard the call. “Close it.”

The comms ripped from his ear with a frustrated snarl, before he said something he was going to regret. Tony Stark had changed his life. He had made him the man that he was today, and these people did not get to decide that his body would be left adrift in the nothingness that was up there. Except they did. Clint wasn’t on the ground. Clint didn’t get a say. And even if he did, Tony had made his choice. Tony had been willing to die to save the people of Manhattan and there was nothing that Clint could do but respect that… but he’d respect it with tears in his eyes. He’d respect it whilst turning his eyes from the battle and letting the mourning take hold. 

Clint didn’t know the exact moment in which his heart had vacated his chest and taken up residence in his throat but as he heard the purr of repulsors and the now-familiar sound of metal boots touching rooftop, Clint was sure it was a permanent shift.

His arms moved unbidden, throwing themselves around the genius, the pain in his ribs as momentarily forgotten as the amount of agony that Stark must be in now. His breath shook. He knew that Tony didn’t understand. Couldn’t understand. At least not yet. The awkward pat of his back was enough to attest to that.

Clint stepped back, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Apologies. I’m a hugger.”

“I’m not.” He could hear the mirth in Tony’s voice, registering a fraction sooner than the growing smile on Tony’s face. Oh. His face. Clint stepped forward again, hand moving, slower this time, giving Tony a chance to move if he wished it. Instead, the genius tilted slightly, allowing his cheek to rest in the palm of Clint’s hand. His thumb brushed a bloody cut, the relief of being alive taking the both of them. The sound of the creaking building they stood in was all that pulled them back to reality, Tony’s hand coming to wrap around Clint’s wrist, bringing his hand down again.

“Let’s fly, Katniss.”

Clint sniffed, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “Sweat in my eye,” he muttered, earning himself a tired snort from the other man.

Metal arms wrapped around him once more. This time… it was the most comfortable method of transportation that Clint had ever encountered. He placed his life entirely in Tony’s hands and when his feet did again meet solid rooftop, his sigh was not relief but disappointment.

“When this is over…” He brushed his hand over his vest, like any amount of basic gesture could remove the blood and debris. “We should talk.”

Tony nodded. “I will roger that.”


End file.
